Jimmy eyed him for a second, with a most curious expression: then, shrugging his shoulders, he replied, “I’ve got a job.”
The hotel at which he had put up was situated not far from the plaza. In the moonlight, with its grim old adobe walls partly shadowed by towering cottonwoods, and artistic balconies to relieve the grimness of square, severe outlines, it bore almost an inviting aspect. A dim, yellowish glimmer shone from the open door, and from somewhere inside came the musical, twanging notes of a guitar.
“What a comic-opera country it seems,” grinned Dick.
“Except at times, I suppose,” said Cranny.
To the intense astonishment of the proprietor, Jimmy led the crowd up a flight of stairs to a large room, facing the street.
“Here’s where I hang out, fellows,” he said, lighting a lamp.
The boys looked about them with interest. Several prints, mostly American, decorated the walls. The furnishings were dingy, and almost every article of furniture had suffered some sort of injury during the course of its apparently long existence. Certainly it was not at all the place which seemed suited to the requirements of a lad like Jimmy.
“Sit down, fellows, and make yourselves miserable,” he laughed. “Oh, by the way, Tom”—he walked to a table in the middle of the room—“here’s a cracker-jack book on cowboy life—want it?”
“Sure thing,” answered Tom, accepting the proffered volume. He looked approvingly at the picture of a wonderfully rearing bronco on the cover; such a horse as he had never seen in nature, or ever expected to. “I reckon this tale’s got the punch all right,” he exclaimed, slipping the book into his pocket. “Say, Jimmy, how long are you going to stay on this side of the Rio?”
“Until I get tired of it, Tom.”